Samuel's Tragedy
by Shattered Stars
Summary: Cpt Sam "Flint" Henders has suffered long enough. After 15 years of pain, he writes his memoirs before sending them off in a bottle.
1. An introduction to my misery

Taken from Cpt. Flint's message in a bottle:  
  
"I sincerely regret to inform the reader that the story that they're about to encounter is neither about true love, destiny, or right conquering wrong. This is a story about heartache, piracy, and abandonment. This is my story. My name is Captain Samuel "Flint" Henders. I am now thirty one years of age. I do believe I am the most miserable person on God's earth, and I thought someone else should know. However, I can't start the story here. My story begins fifteen long years ago in December.  
Elyse and I were always best of friends. We'd play together, sing together, there were even a few moments to both of our enjoyment where we even lusted together by kissing in the gardens of her mother's mistress's house. Elyse's mother was a nurse for a rather wealthy family, the name of which escapes me at the moment, but they were constantly out of the area. Perhaps that is why I am unable to recall the name. I myself worked for the school's headmaster. I would copy manuscripts and run errands. I would tend to the children and act as a monitor. There was no doubt in my mind that she loved me because she told me so herself. Often. I could literally inhale her beauty and warmth and exhale our perfect love.  
When my grandfather died two months after my fourteenth birthday, my family traveled to Marseilles for the funeral. After the procession and the requiem and all the other sad things, I decided to take a look around the French market place to see if there were any souvenirs of my French journey to take home to England. The streets were noisy, stuffy and I was losing items quicker than I was attaining them.  
My family constantly chided me for my strong headed behavior. After my next encounter, my mother said I would've made a fantastic night in shining armor. I was briefly stalled at a silk and satin vendor, feeling and caressing the soft materials. Perhaps I could use them to make something for Elyse, I though when a screech in an alleyway directly in front of me caught my attention. I jogged over to find an old woman being senselessly beaten by thugs. She lay slumped against the wall, red blood splattered upon her grey hair. As soon as I ran to her rescue, the assailants bailed and before I could assist her to her feet, she was up and grasping my hands in her wiry, small, and wrinkled ones. The crone's clothing reminded me of stories I had heard from older men that attend the school about gypsies and bohemians. Her long curly hair was partially covered by a beaded scarf and her actual dress seemed to be made only out of other dresses.  
"Such a brave lad be deserven a prize, do ye think?" The scratchy voice and her muffled French confused me so I remained standing like a statue in front of her. "Of course ye does! Hold our yer hand." The frail woman grasped my hands tighter and forced my palms upward. I remained there like that for a few moments while her small prune-like hands searched her various pockets and bags. Disappointedly, she looked up at me and folded her hands as though she were about to convey her regrets. As soon as she did, her eyes suddenly widened and sparkled.  
Into my open palms she dropped two completely identical rings. They were both silver bands that wrapped around a pale and glowing stone. As I brought my face up to hers in gratitude, I saw nothing but a grinning skull. With a girlish shriek, I tore out of the alleyway and straight into my mother's arms.  
Upon arrival home, I met with Elyse and presented her the ring beneath the moonlight with these words, "We were meant to be together. Always."  
  
A year after that, of course, she met Theodore.  
  
Theodore never said anything except awkward groups of words that usually went unheard anyway. Whenever Elyse was around him, however, they both seemed to light up. He would whisper sweet things in her ears that I was meant to say. How she made my heart sing. How I wanted to always be with her. How we were MEANT to be together. Yet, throughout all his flirting she wore my ring.  
Two months later when I heard Elyse and Theodore were to be wed, I locked myself in my chamber for a week. All I wanted to do was die or get as far away as possible. I tried killing myself by creating a rope out of my sheets and hanging myself with them. The sheet kept ripping. When committing suicide proved to not be an option, I chose the latter. I packed my bags, kissed my mother goodbye and I was off to America. Yet nothing...no matter how far away I was...nothing could keep me from crying myself to sleep every night. 


	2. Hello, Peter

I suppose that I should've waited for a passenger ship to fly me to my new home of America, but my strong head seems to act before I can get a chance to think most times and instead, I signed on as a spare hand aboard a ship carrying mostly furniture and pianos going to new citizens of America. Most of my days aboard the ship were spent below deck crying like a nursed boy between a large grandfather clock and a bookshelf or over the side of the ship getting sick. Boats don't exactly tickle my fancy the way teaching or singing did. During my journey, I had vowed myself to silence and for weeks all anyone ever heard from my mouth were my squeaking sobs or my sleeping gibberish talk. A full month of such reclusion passed. I was sure that if I simply closed my eyes long enough, I would be placed in the hands of God...or perhaps the Reaper of Death. Either way, each sway of the ship and each beat of my heart shook my soul. Each step I took along the deck creaked her name. Elyse...Elyse...Elyse...and then they would seem to whisper not yours...not yours...not yours.  
  
Every day, I would hear the words in my step all the way to the stern where I would watch the sea rush past and close my eyes, waiting for my death. Upon my sixth day of doing so, I actually leaned over the edge, contemplating a jump when I heard a voice. "Care fer a ginga-ale?" Groggily, I pulled myself up to view however was speaking to me. Instead of seeing anything at all, I felt my stomach lurch and my insides turn. My guts began to rise in my throat as I sent my head back over the end of the ship to watch my breakfast float down to Davey Jones's locker. A large soft hand rubbed my back lightly as I vomited before I heard chuckling, "I s'pose I shed get ye one, then, eh?" Regaining composure, I stood erect and faced away from the water (which is a fantastic feat when one is aboard a ship). "Who...," the word slipped from my chapped lips. It had been my first word in the past few weeks. What I saw before me was a boy of about thirteen or fourteen making him a good year or perhaps year and a half younger than myself. The lad wasn't nearly as tall as I was, on the contrary, he seemed to have stopped growing vertically quite a time ago and was instead growing horizontally for the boy was a bit large. Perhaps I wouldn't say he was exceedingly fat, but certainly he looked well fed. White blonde hair and sky blue eyes contrasted against my own dark redish brown hair and hazel green and grey eyes. "Peter," he stuck a plump hand out to shake mine. "Peter Bolswally." I took his hand politely in mine and shook, introducing myself as Samuel Henders. I hadn't realized the toll that being sick had just taken. Before managing to take my hand back, I collapsed unconscious to the ground. 


	3. The rise and fall of a good friend

Authors note: I'm having a few technical difficulties and none of my format has been showing up. Please have patience. Also, how about instead of leaving me a review of everything thing I did wrong and everything I should correct, send me a private e-mail at emeraldblood@hotmail.com. THANKEEES and enjoy the show.  
  
When I awoke, I found myself in a small room that was decorated with maps along the walls. A small table stood in the corner with an open diary upon it. After I found that my legs were trusty enough, I stood and drew myself over towards the desk. In the diary I read the latest entry:  
  
"Finley spok to the mute by. Por lad faintd. E's resten in me ruum til e's wel."  
  
After leafing through the pages of the journal, I found it littered with spelling and grammar mistakes. I suppose one could call it my teacherly instinct to cluck my tongue and wag my head. Surprisingly enough, I resisted the urge to go back over and correct the horrendous errors. I heard the door click behind me, open then shut. My eyes drew up the wall till I was standing straight before I turned around. Facing me was the jolly Peter, smile stretching from ear to ear. I must admit I was rather frightened before I saw his face due to the fact that I had been tearing through his personal diary. Peter threw his arms around me and chuckled lightly. "y'mist not meet folk so of'n, eh?" he slurred at me. It took a few moments to register, then I shook my head and replied, "No.Well.yes, but I haven't been myself lately." There was a pause as Peter stood there as if trying to think of something hospitable to do for me. Before he could speak another word I astonishingly leaped into conversation. "You know," I said, "I used to teach at the primary school in my home town. I could teach you better grammar...or even how to.....ehm..spell?" Peter merely wagged his head, "I been te school. Never could learn mor'n me alphabet." This was my opportunity, I though. I could teach Peter how to write CORRECTLY and then when we got to America, I would be a school teacher. As color returned to my cheeks, I nodded quickly, "but I'll teach you! I'll teach you better than ever before. I'll be the best teacher that ever was." Hearing such words flow from my mouth seemed rather odd to me seeing as though I hadn't spoken in ages. No matter, though, for I had found something worthwhile to do with my life. No longer did I have the desire to end my life in the back of my heart. I wanted to live. Now, as I write I can remember that feeling and it brings a smile to my face and it warms my frozen heart. I taught Peter to read. I taught Peter to speak. Once he started speaking correctly, we would carry on in conversation, telling the other about ourselves and so on. As it turns out, his father is the furniture company's owner and when he passes away, Peter will take over the business. He asked about everything about me. Who in my family had the same color eyes as me, where did I get my clothes, what was my mother like, and last of all, where did my ring come from. At first, I teetered on the thought of telling him it was an heirloom. Instead, I was truthful. I told him the tale of how I aquired it and it's mate. I told him, also that I had given the other ring to a girl whom I had been in love with who chose to marry someone else. "I suppose it feels like we're connected. Two of a kind, the rings are. Just like we were, she and I." My story, although I told it with a bit of lackluster, brought my companion to tears.  
  
Days passed by and I was sure we would be close to America by now. I asked Peter to ask the captain for me early one morning before we'd left the room (by now, you see we were sharing a room.) and he agreed and skipped out. Nearly an hour passed before I decided to disembark from the room myself. Although for the hour before hand I had been hearing splashing sounds as if someone were throwing the furniture overboard. A scream filled my ears and made every hair on my body stand up straight. I ran to the door and attempted to swing it open, but to no avail. It seemed to be weighted down by something very heavy. Through the door I heard many shouts, the sounds of pistols and the clash of steel upon steel. Something terrible was going on out there and I couldn't get the bloody door open. I remained there for what seemed like an eternity, hearing tortured screams of what I knew where my crewmates. This meant only one thing. Pirates. I'd heard of pirates before in fairy tales and story books that I the children at school were asked to read. Most dreaded pirates never took prisoners, but they never let anyone go, either. A long silence caused me to press my ear against the door. Once I did, I felt something sharp poking against my hand. Upon backing up I found that there were three triangles of metal poking through the door as if someone had begun to nail something through the wood. Now is the time to open the door, I thought. I braced myself, took a hold of the handle and pulled hard. The door lazily swung open. I was face to face with Peter. He was pinned against the door by two knives and a sword. One knife was through his left eye, the blood from his head ran down his face and covered his clothes. The sword pined him through the stomach and the other knife was through his right leg. Before I knew it, tears were shooting from my eyes. The one friend I had made was murdered by the damned pirates. No longer had I anything to live for and I cared for everything less than I had ever before. The ground was under my hands and I knew I had collapsed to my knees.  
No sooner had I fallen then I felt something grab onto my neck. I felt a blow to the back and I was then let free. I turned around to face my assailant, however my vision was impaired by tears.  
  
I remember saying before blacking out, "Don't stop.thank you." 


End file.
